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branches ::: Ogawa

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object:Ogawa
alt:Ogawa Haritsu?
subject class:Poetry
subject class:Painting
subject class:Art

Born:1663, Ise, Mie, Japan
Died: July 10, 1747 (aged 84)
Nationality: Japanese

Ogawa Haritsu was painter and industrial artist. He also was a potter and lacquer artist. His lacquer works had invariably ceramic pieces of his own make inlaid. He also inlaid tortoise shell, relief cinnabar, gold, silver, lead and other metallic pieces and achieved unique results. (His pseudonym of Haritsu means Broken Straw Hat). ~ Prabook.com


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now begins generated list of local instances, definitions, quotes, instances in chapters, wordnet info if available and instances among weblinks


OBJECT INSTANCES [0] - TOPICS - AUTHORS - BOOKS - CHAPTERS - CLASSES - SEE ALSO - SIMILAR TITLES

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IN CHAPTERS TITLE

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Ogawa

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QUOTES [164 / 164 - 49 / 49]


KEYS (10k)

  164 Ogawa

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   21 Y ko Ogawa
   14 Joy Kogawa
   5 Edogawa Rampo
   3 Yoko Ogawa
   2 Takehiko Inoue
   2 Kobun Chino Otogawa
   2 Gosho Aoyama

1:jealousy is
the death
of love ~ Ogawa,
2:a butterfly
is also made
of dust ~ Ogawa,
3:aware of life
passing like dew
they play in the sun ~ Ogawa,
4:mushrooms gathering
on an old maple stump
autumn rain
~ Ogawa,
5:feel
heal
evolve
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
6:truth
has a
feeling
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
7:we
suffer
from being
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
8:in my
eyes
autumn sunset
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
9:no need
to cling
floating
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
10:alone with a
gold star
dawn
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
11:alone
among
the fallen leaves
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
12:healing
is an act
of becoming
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
13:a cicada's
last song
to autumn
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
14:cold air
falling with
the rain
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
15:together
happy
under the stars
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
16:we live
we heal
we are reborn
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
17:at the end
of a journey
thunder
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
18:finally
asleep
peace on earth
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
19:serenity
dissolves
all sorrows
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
20:the ache
in your heart
is holy
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
21:together
laughing
in the rain
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
22:a butterfly
is also made
of dust
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
23:a full moon
a full heart
at dawn
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
24:arriving
alone
under a dark moon
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
25:is this rain
falling only
on me?
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
26:sadness
the weight
of empathy
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
27:a fox
trotting over
morning frost
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
28:greeting my
reflection
with love
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
29:sipping tea
waiting for
the stars
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
30:blooming
in the early
autumn frost
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
31:dazzling
red dusk
familiar faces
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
32:gazing
at the bridge
autumn sunset
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
33:happy
together
in the cool evening
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
34:in the dawn
a dewy blue
flax field
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
35:joy
in being alone
autumn evening
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
36:melting
into one
an amazing night
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
37:young
so very young
newlywed stars
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
38:for a moment
darkness over
the moon
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
39:peace within
the depths
of the lake
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
40:shadows
walking in
the cold night
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
41:a scarecrow
casting a
moon shadow
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
42:autumn frost
silencing
the insects
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
43:moonlight
for a moment
then clouds
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
44:the princess
lily's heart
at peace
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
45:along the
busy road
flowers blooming
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
46:at dawn
walking through
yellow fields
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
47:downwind
in moonlight
tea pot steam
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
48:frost
on amber maple
late autumn wind
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
49:hope
for tomorrow
evening swallows
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
50:to be alive
is a wonder
autumn herbs
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
51:two or three
red leaves
autumn frost
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
52:writing
love poetry
on fallen leaves
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
53:a morning
of steady rainfall
hot tea
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
54:for a moment
the darkness
is forgotten
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
55:great earth
limitless sky
autumn fades
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
56:lantern light
in the autumn mist
dawn
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
57:leaves with
poems on them
are falling
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
58:running
and hiding
in harvested fields
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
59:under the stars
is my home
autumn wind
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
60:walking
within a shadow
an autumn moon
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
61:after dinner
they gather
cumulus clouds
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
62:my heart
wanders like a
migrating bird
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
63:never doubt
your ability
to be loved
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
64:noonday
the sun flooding
a yellow maple
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
65:still singing
the insects
drifting away
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
66:the moon
missing from
the dark cold sky
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
67:visions
of moonlight
dazzling the eyes
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
68:with tonight's
moon we begin
to dance
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
69:a world healing
moon prayers
midsummer
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
70:gratitude
receiving relief
from heaven
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
71:half-moon
in raindrops
sleepless night
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
72:late roses
in the clover
a sacred space
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
73:loving under a
crescent moon
autumn dusk
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
74:revealed
in candle light
my lover's face
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
75:the river
of heaven runs
through my body
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
76:today
beginning to feel
the autumn wind
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
77:a bonfire
in a frosty field
morning light
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
78:a dark moon
over the mountain
autumn rain
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
79:alone
I have lost my way
autumn darkness
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
80:happy
on a pure night
the river of heaven
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
81:into
the autumn mist
refreshing our souls
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
82:quietly sipping
my lucky tea
mid-autumn
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
83:after the rain
garden sparrows
autumn mist
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
84:a moment
of brief eternity
autumn sunset
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
85:a pillow
of fallen leaves
autumn afternoon
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
86:frost
is forming along
the river of heaven
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
87:hope is the
celebration
of possibilities
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
88:moonlight from
a tree's shadow
forest walk
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
89:strange
lighting slicing
the autumn night
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
90:welcoming
the cool rain
dry autumn fields
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
91:winter
draws nearer
wildflowers in bloom
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
92:a dark moon
passing through
new beginnings
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
93:alone dancing
at the festival
autumn dusk
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
94:amazing
wondering and lost
seeing this moon
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
95:an autumn rainbow
over the lake
fades away
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
96:celebrating
the morning rain
autumn journey
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
97:last of the cicadas
in the forest
dark moon
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
98:leaves falling in
honor of our
simple love
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
99:their face
by the glow
of an unsteady light
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
100:early darkness
slowly creeps in
autumn wind
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
101:feeling safe
with a person
under a dark moon
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
102:listening to
ancient oaks
in the autumn wind
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
103:lusting
after truth is a
very noble passion
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
104:midnight in a
forest of dreams
moon viewing
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
105:nostalgic
for cherry blossoms
in deep autumn
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
106:singing
to the crescent moon
autumn cicadas
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
107:walking alone
graffiti on a wall
autumn dusk
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
108:a moonlit hideout
in the pine forest's
shadow
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
109:morning rain
falling upon a
bonfire of leaves
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
110:sleepy after
a wasted night
as the rain falls
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
111:stand in your center
and be flooded
with joy
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
112:the hometown
that I abandoned
in late autumn
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
113:the wind through
the forest among
the trees
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
114:through the window
a bright moon
late autumn
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
115:with the moonlight
comes the cold
late autumn
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
116:a strange evening
for falling leaves
moonless
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
117:her shadow walking
through the house
new moon
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
118:on horseback
in a silent village
a thin mist
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
119:sparrows singing
of the next life
morning dew
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
120:a strange morning
for falling leaves
loneliness
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
121:red leaves
perfectly silent
a temple of prayer
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
122:resting easy
the cat sleeps too....
autumn rain
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
123:autumn butterflies
have no desire
to young again
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
124:birds still singing
into the night
autumn wind
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
125:geese flying
under the cover
of the morning mist
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
126:through the fields
we wander
a butterfly and I
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
127:a crescent moon
on a clear night
migrating geese
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
128:autumn leaves
on a rainy evening
rusting deep red
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
129:some stayed behind
in the colored leaves
sparrows
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
130:the sound of water
lingering autumn
star gazing
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
131:a bonfire
in the deep forest
naked souls dancing
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
132:after the rain
over the mountain
an autumn rainbow
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
133:a storm of dried
leaves blowing over
a scarecrow
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
134:a warm sun
on a secluded house
in a withered field
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
135:birds huddling
along the eaves
cold autumn morning
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
136:chestnuts
dropping from the sky
as autumn deepens
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
137:maple trees
tipped with stars
a lone bell rings out
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
138:rhythm
a current from the divine
flooding your body
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
139:the morning glories
have strong karma
autumn frost
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
140:two lovers
crossing together
the river of heaven
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
141:unknown lights
in an autumn forest
a fox's wedding
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
142:warm afternoon sun
in the autumn wind
upon my face
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
143:a crescent moon over
a penniless town
dead end road
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
144:dancing at night
red leaves falling
into the bonfire
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
145:in the morning dew
the butterfly's attitude
improves
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
146:lovemaking
stars falling
from the river of heaven
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
147:the early sun
reaches the valley
autumn wildflowers
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
148:even at dawn
autumn fog hovers
over the sallow river
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
149:evening shadows
enjoying the company
of old friends
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
150:hunter moon
clear autumn night
everywhere a new sign
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
151:in a warm bed
everything is forgotten
autumn evening
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
152:sunset as if
it was the last
thank you for the morning
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
153:the bright sun
touching my face
walking in the forest
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
154:traveling
to a strange land
just to watch the sunset
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
155:mushrooms gathering
on an old maple stump
autumn rain
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
156:tea smoke
hesitantly rising into
the autumn morning sky
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
157:the moon in east
the sun in the west
yellow wildflowers
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
158:through a frosty window
an autumn moon
sleep time bliss
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
159:unexpected moonlight
shining through my
bedroom window
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
160:yellow wildflowers
among tea drinkers
autumn festival
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
161:walking through
a mountain village
on a cold autumn night
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
162:a rainbow over the mountain
reflected on the lake
autumn wind
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
163:watching the river
through a window of tress
autumn rain falls
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety
164:when all thoughts
are exhausted I escape
into the forest and gather
~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:He preferred smart questions to smart answers. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
2:Why was everyone dying? They had all been so alive just yesterday. ~ Yoko Ogawa,
3:A problem isn't finished just because you've found the right answer. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
4:Are all things quantifiable, and all numbers fraught with poetic possibility? ~ Y ko Ogawa,
5:They say it'll be even hotter tomorrow. that's how we spend the summer. complaining about the heat. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
6:I was always watching you." This could have been a breathless declaration of love or a final farewell. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
7:The room was filled with a kind of stillness. Not simply an absence of noise, but an accumulation of layers of silence... ~ Y ko Ogawa,
8:Eternal truths are ultimately invisible, and you won't find them in material things or natural phenomena, or even in human emotions. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
9:Eternal truths are ultimately invisible, and you won't find them in material things or natural phenomena, or even in human emotions. ~ Yoko Ogawa,
10:Solving a problem for which you know there's an answer is like climbing a mountain with a guide, along a trail someone else has laid. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
11:He seemed convinced that children's questions were much more important than those of an adult. He preferred smart questions to smart answers. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
12:he seemed convinced that children’s questions were much more important than those of an adult. He preferred smart questions to smart answers. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
13:Math has proven the existence of God, because it is absolute and without contradiction; but the devil must exist as well, because we cannot prove it ~ Y ko Ogawa,
14:He treated Root exactly as he treated prime numbers. For him, primes were the base on which all other natural numbers relied; and children were the foundation of everything worthwhile in the adult world ~ Y ko Ogawa,
15:So you think that zero was there waiting for us when humans came into being,like the flowers and the stars? You should have more respect for human progress. We made the zero, through great pain and struggle. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
16:When we grow up, we find ways to hide our anxieties, our loneliness, our fear and sorrow. But children hide nothing, putting everything into their tears, which they spread liberally about for the whole world to see. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
17:He had a special feeling for what he called the “correct miscalculation,” for he believed that mistakes were often as revealing as the right answers. This gave us confidence even when our best efforts came to nothing. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
18:Soon after I began working for the Professor, I realized that he talked about numbers whenever he was unsure of what to say or do. Numbers were also his way of reaching out to the world. They were safe, a source of comfort. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
19:It was clear that he didn't remember me from one day to the next. The note clipped to his sleeve simply informed him that it was not our first meeting, but it could not bring back the memory of the time we had spent together. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
20:Still, being alone doesn't mean you have to be miserable. In that sense it's different from losing something. You've still got yourself, even if you lose everything else. You've got to have faith in yourself and not get down just because you're on your own. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
21:Still, being alone doesn't mean you have to be miserable. In that sense it's different from losing something. You've still got yourself, even if you lose everything else. You've got to have faith in yourself and not get down just because you're on your own. ~ Yoko Ogawa,
22:Because he had been- and in many ways still was- such a brilliant man, he no doubt understood the nature of his memory problem. It wasn't pride that prevented him from asking for help but a deep aversion to causing more trouble than necessary for those of us who lived in the normal world. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
23:The ancient Greeks thought there was no need to count something that was nothing. And since it was nothing, they held that it was impossible to express it as a figure. So someone had to overcome this reasonable assumption, someone had to figure out how to express nothing as a number. This unknown man from India made nonexistence exist. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
24:The truly correct proof is one that strikes a harmonious balance between strength and flexibility. There are plenty of proofs that are technically correct but are messy and inelegant or counterintuitive. But it's not something you can put into words — explaining why a formula is beautiful is like trying to explain why the stars are beautiful. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
25:The truly correct proof is one that strikes a harmonious balance between strength and flexibility. There are plenty of proofs that are technically correct but are messy and inelegant or counterintuitive. But it's not something you can put into words - explaining why a formula is beautiful is like trying to explain why the stars are beautiful. ~ Yoko Ogawa,
26:Solving a problem for which you know there’s an answer is like climbing a mountain with a guide, along a trail someone else has laid. In mathematics, the truth is somewhere out there in a place no one knows, beyond all the beaten paths. And it’s not always at the top of the mountain. It might be in a crack on the smoothest cliff or somewhere deep in the valley. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
27:Solving a problem for which you know there’s an answer is like climbing a mountain with a guide, along a trail someone else has laid. In mathematics, the truth is somewhere out there in a place no one knows, beyond all the beaten paths. And it’s not always at the top of the mountain. It might be in a crack on the smoothest cliff or somewhere deep in the valley. ~ Yoko Ogawa,
28:Among the many things that made the Professor an excellent teacher was the fact that he wasn't afraid to say 'we don't know.' For the Professor, there was no shame in admitting you didn't have the answer, it was a necessary step toward the truth. It was as important to teach us about the unknown or the unknowable as it was to teach us what had already been safely proven. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
29:The Professor never really seemed to care whether we figured out the right answer to a problem. He preferred our wild, desperate guesses to silence, and he was even more delighted when those guesses led to new problems that took us beyond the original one. He had a special feeling for what he called the "correct miscalculation," for he believed that mistakes were often as revealing as the right answers. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
30:—Mais, quelle que soit l'importance de l'événement, dès qu'il est écrit sur le papier, il ne fait plus qu'une ou deux lignes. "Mes yeux ne voyaient plus" ou "je n'avais plus un sou", il suffit d'une dizaine ou d'une vingtaine de lettres de l'alphabet. C'est pourquoi, quand on calligraphie des autobiographies, il arrive qu'on soit soulagé. On se dit que ce n'est pas la peine de trop réfléchir à tout ce qui se passe dans le monde. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
31:When I’m curled up in his arms like this, I can never tell how my body looks to him. I worry that I seem completely ridiculous, but I have the ability to squeeze into any little space he leaves for me. I fold my legs until they take up almost no room at all, and curl in my shoulders until they’re practically dislocated. Like a mummy in a tomb. And when I get like this, I don’t care if I never get out; or maybe that’s exactly what I hope will happen. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
32:Woman to Man
Lightning hits the roof,
shoves the knife, darkness,
deep in the walls.
They bleed light all over us
and your face, the fan, folds up,
so I won't see how afraid
to be with me you are.
We don't mix, even in bed,
where we keep ending up.
There's no need to hide it:
you're snow, I'm coal,
I've got the scars to prove it.
But open your mouth,
I'll give you a taste of black
you won't forget.
For a while, I'll let it make you strong,
make your heart lion,
then I'll take it back.
~ Ai Ogawa,
33:...The pages and pages of complex, impenetrable calculations might have contained the secrets of the universe, copied out of God's notebook.
In my imagination, I saw the creator of the universe sitting in some distant corner of the sky, weaving a pattern of delicate lace so fine that that even the faintest light would shine through it. The lace stretches out infinitely in every direction, billowing gently in the cosmic breeze. You want desperately to touch it, hold it up to the light, rub it against your cheek. And all we ask is to be able to re-create the pattern, weave it again with numbers, somehow, in our own language; to make the tiniest fragment our own, to bring it back to eart. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
34:Twenty-year Marriage
You keep me waiting in a truck
with its one good wheel stuck in the ditch,
while you piss against the south side of a tree.
Hurry. I've got nothing on under my skirt tonight.
That still excites you, but this pickup has no windows
and the seat, one fake leather thigh,
pressed close to mine is cold.
I'm the same size, shape, make as twenty years ago,
but get inside me, start the engine;
you'll have the strength, the will to move.
I'll pull, you push, we'll tear each other in half.
Come on, baby, lay me down on my back.
Pretend you don't owe me a thing
and maybe we'll roll out of here,
leaving the past stacked up behind us;
old newspapers nobody's ever got to read again.
~ Ai Ogawa,
35:Disregard
Overhead, the match burns out,
but the chunk of ice in the back seat
keeps melting from imagined heat,
while the old Hudson tiptoes up the slope.
My voile blouse, so wet it is transparent,
like one frightened hand, clutches my chest.
The bag of rock salt sprawled beside me wakes, thirsty
and stretches a shaky tongue toward the ice.
I press the gas pedal hard.
I'll get back to the house, the dirt yard, the cesspool,
to you out back, digging a well
you could fill with your sweat,
though there is not one reason I should want to.
You never notice me until the end of the day,
when your hand is on my knee
and the ice cream, cooked to broth,
is hot enough to burn the skin off my touch.
~ Ai Ogawa,
36:She began to sing, but I could not make out the words. It must have been a love song, to judge from the slightly pained expression on her face, and the way she tightly gripped the microphone. I noticed a flash of white skin on her neck. As she reached the climax of the song, her eyes half closed and her shoulders thrown back, a shudder passed through her body. She moved her arm across her chest to cradle her heart, as though consoling it, afraid it might burst. I wondered what would happen if I held her tight in my arms, in a lovers’ embrace, melting into one another, bone on bone… her heart would be crushed. The membrane would split, the veins tear free, the heart itself explode into bits of flesh, and then my desire would contain hers - it was all so painful and yet so utterly beautiful to imagine. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
37:Cuba, 1962
When the rooster jumps up on the windowsill
and spreads his red-gold wings,
I wake, thinking it is the sun
and call Juanita, hearing her answer,
but only in my mind.
I know she is already outside,
breaking the cane off at ground level,
using only her big hands.
I get the machete and walk among the cane,
until I see her, lying face-down in the dirt.
Juanita, dead in the morning like this.
I raise the machete—
what I take from the earth, I give back—
and cut off her feet.
I lift the body and carry it to the wagon,
where I load the cane to sell in the village.
Whoever tastes my woman in his candy, his cake,
tastes something sweeter than this sugar cane;
it is grief.
If you eat too much of it, you want more,
you can never get enough.
~ Ai Ogawa,
38:For a torture to be effective, the pain has to be spread out; it has to come at regular intervals, with no end in sight. The water falls , drop after drop after drop, like the second hand of a watch, carving up time. The shock of each individual drop is insignificant, but the sensation is impossible to ignore. At first, one might manage to think about other things, but after five hours, after ten hours, it becomes unendurable. The repeated stimulation excites the nerves to a point where they literally explode, and every sensation in the body is absorbed into that one spot on the forehead---indeed, you come to feel that you are nothing but a forehead, into which a fine needle is being forced millimeter by millimeter. You can’t sleep or even speak, hypnotized by a suffering that is greater than any mere pain. In general, the victim goes mad before a day has passed. ~ Y ko Ogawa,
39:Conversation
We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You touch my knees with your blue fingers.
And when you open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light falls to the floor
and burns a hole through it.
Don't tell me, I say. I don't want to hear.
Did you ever, you start,
wear a certain kind of dress
and just by accident,
so inconsequential you barely notice it,
your fingers graze that dress
and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper,
you see it too
and you realize how that image
is simply the extension of another image,
that your own life
is a chain of words
that one day will snap.
Words, you say, young girls in a circle, holding hands,
and beginning to rise heavenward
in their confirmation dresses,
like white helium balloons,
the wreathes of flowers on their heads spinning,
and above all that,
that's where I'm floating,
and that's what it's like
only ten times clearer,
ten times more horrible.
Could anyone alive survive it?
~ Ai Ogawa,
40:That night our new husbands took us quickly. They took us calmly. They took us gently, but firmly, and without saying a word. They assumed we were the virgins the matchmakers had promised them we were and they took us with exquisite care. Now let me know if it hurts.
They took us flat on our backs on the bare floor of the Minute Motel. They took us downtown, in second-rate rooms at the Kumamoto Inn. They took us in the best hotels in San Francisco that a yellow man could set foot in at the time. The Kinokuniya Hotel. The Mikado. The Hotel Ogawa. They took us for granted and assumed we would do for them whatever it was we were told. Please turn toward the wall and drop down on your hands and knees (...)
They took us violently, with their fists, whenever we tried to resist. They took us even though we bit them. They took us even though we hit them (...).
They took us cautiously, as though they were afraid we might break. You’re so small. They took us coldly but knowledgeably — In 20 seconds you will lose all control —
and we knew there had been many others before us. They took us as we stared up blankly at the ceiling and waited for it to be over, not realizing that it would not be over for years. ~ Julie Otsuka,
41:Passage For Allen Ginsberg
Sunflowers beside the railroad tracks,
sunflowers giving back the beauty God gave you
to one lonely traveler
who spies you from a train window
as she passes on her way to another train station.
She wonders if she were like you
rooted to your bit of earth
would she be happy,
would she be satisfied
to have the world glide past and not regret it?
For a moment, she thinks so,
then decides that, no, she never could
and turns back to her book of poetry,
remembering how hard it was to get here
and that flowers have their places as people do
and she cannot simply exchange hers for another,
even though she wants it.
That's how it is.
Her mother told her.
Now she believes her,
although she wishes she didn't.
At fifty-three, she feels the need
to rebel against the inevitable winding down.
She already feels it in her bones,
feels artery deterioration, and imagines
cancerous indications on medical charts
she hopes will never be part of her life,
as she turns back to the window
to catch the last glimpse of the sunflowers
that sent her thoughts on a journey
from which she knows she will never return,
only go on and on
and then just go.
~ Ai Ogawa,
42:The Kid
My sister rubs the doll's face in mud,
then climbs through the truck window.
She ignores me as I walk around it,
hitting the flat tires with an iron rod.
The old man yells for me to help hitch the team,
but I keep walking around the truck, hitting harder,
until my mother calls.
I pick up a rock and throw it at the kitchen window,
but it falls short.
The old man's voice bounces off the air like a ball
I can't lift my leg over.
I stand beside him, waiting, but he doesn't look up
and I squeeze the rod, raise it, his skull splits open.
Mother runs toward us. I stand still,
get her across the spine as she bends over him.
I drop the rod and take the rifle from the house.
Roses are red, violets are blue,
one bullet for the black horse, two for the brown.
They're down quick. I spit, my tongue's bloody;
I've bitten it. I laugh, remember the one out back.
I catch her climbing from the truck, shoot.
The doll lands on the ground with her.
I pick it up, rock it in my arms.
Yeah. I'm Jack, Hogarth's son.
I'm nimble, I'm quick.
In the house, I put on the old man's best suit
and his patent leather shoes.
I pack my mother's satin nightgown
and my sister's doll in the suitcase.
Then I go outside and cross the fields to the highway.
I'm fourteen. I'm a wind from nowhere.
I can break your heart.
~ Ai Ogawa,
43:Grandfather Says
"Sit in my hand."
I'm ten.
I can't see him,
but I hear him breathing
in the dark.
It's after dinner playtime.
We're outside,
hidden by trees and shrubbery.
He calls it hide-and-seek,
but only my little sister seeks us
as we hide
and she can't find us,
as grandfather picks me up
and rubs his hands between my legs.
I only feel a vague stirring
at the edge of my consciousness.
I don't know what it is,
but I like it.
It gives me pleasure
that I can't identify.
It's not like eating candy,
but it's just as bad,
because I had to lie to grandmother
when she asked,
"What do you do out there?"
"Where?" I answered.
Then I said, "Oh, play hide-and-seek."
She looked hard at me,
then she said, "That was the last time.
I'm stopping that game."
So it ended and I forgot.
Ten years passed, thirtyfive,
when I began to reconstruct the past.
When I asked myself
why I was attracted to men who disgusted me
I traveled back through time
to the dark and heavy breathing part of my life
I thought was gone,
but it had only sunk from view
into the quicksand of my mind.
It was pulling me down
and there I found grandfather waiting,
his hand outstretched to lift me up,
naked and wet
where he rubbed me.
"I'll do anything for you," he whispered,
"but let you go."
And I cried, "Yes," then "No."
"I don't understand how you can do this to me.
I'm only ten years old,"
and he said, "That's old enough to know."
~ Ai Ogawa,
44:Riot Act, April 29, 1992
I'm going out and get something.
I don't know what.
I don't care.
Whatever's out there, I'm going to get it.
Look in those shop windows at boxes
and boxes of Reeboks and Nikes
to make me fly through the air
like Michael Jordan
like Magic.
While I'm up there, I see Spike Lee.
Looks like he's flying too
straight through the glass
that separates me
from the virtual reality
I watch everyday on TV.
I know the difference between
what it is and what it isn't.
Just because I can't touch it
doesn't mean it isn't real.
All I have to do is smash the screen,
reach in and take what I want.
Break out of prison.
South Central homey's newly risen
from the night of living dead,
but this time he lives,
he gets to give the zombies
a taste of their own medicine.
Open wide and let me in,
or else I'll set your world on fire,
but you pretend that you don't hear.
You haven't heard the word is coming down
like the hammer of the gun
of this black son, locked out of this big house,
while massa looks out the window and sees only smoke.
Massa doesn't see anything else,
not because he can't,
but because he won't.
He'd rather hear me talking about mo' money,
mo' honeys and gold chains
23
and see me carrying my favorite things
from looted stores
than admit that underneath my Raider's cap,
the aftermath is staring back
unblinking through the camera's lens,
courtesy of CNN,
my arms loaded with boxes of shoes
that I will sell at the swap meet
to make a few cents on the declining dollar.
And if I destroy myself
and my neighborhood
"ain't nobody's business, if I do,"
but the police are knocking hard
at my door
and before I can open it,
they break it down
and drag me in the yard.
They take me in to be processed and charged,
to await trial,
while Americans forget
the day the wealth finally trickled down
to the rest of us.
~ Ai Ogawa,
45:Salomé
I scissor the stem of the red carnation
and set it in a bowl of water.
It floats the way your head would,
if I cut it off.
But what if I tore you apart
for those afternoons
when I was fifteen
and so like a bird of paradise
slaughtered for its feathers.
Even my name suggested wings,
wicker cages, flight.
Come, sit on my lap, you said.
I felt as if I had flown there;
I was weightless.
You were forty and married.
That she was my mother never mattered.
She was a door that opened onto me.
The three of us blended into a kind of somnolence
and musk, the musk of Sundays. Sweat and sweetness.
That dried plum and licorice taste
always back of my tongue
and your tongue against my teeth,
then touching mine. How many times?—
I counted, but could never remember.
And when I thought we'd go on forever,
that nothing could stop us
as we fell endlessly from consciousness,
orders came: War in the north.
Your sword, the gold epaulets,
the uniform so brightly colored,
so unlike war, I thought.
And your horse; how you rode out the gate.
No, how that horse danced beneath you
toward the sound of cannon fire.
I could hear it, so many leagues away.
I could see you fall, your face scarlet,
the horse dancing on without you.
And at the same moment,
Mother sighed and turned clumsily in the hammock,
25
the Madeira in the thin-stemmed glass
spilled into the grass,
and I felt myself hardening to a brandy-colored wood,
my skin, a thousand strings drawn so taut
that when I walked to the house
I could hear music
tumbling like a waterfall of China silk
behind me.
I took your letter from my bodice.
Salome, I heard your voice,
little bird, fly. But I did not.
I untied the lilac ribbon at my breasts
and lay down on your bed.
After a while, I heard Mother's footsteps,
watched her walk to the window.
I closed my eyes
and when I opened them
the shadow of a sword passed through my throat
and Mother, dressed like a grenadier,
bent and kissed me on the lips.
~ Ai Ogawa,
46:Nothing But Color
I didn't write Etsuko,
I sliced her open.
She was carmine inside
like a sea bass
and empty.
No viscera, nothing but color.
I love you like that, boy.
I pull the kimono down around your shoulders
and kiss you.
Then you let it fall open.
Each time, I cut you a little
and when you leave, I take the piece,
broil it, dip it in ginger sauce
and eat it. It burns my mouth so.
You laugh, holding me belly-down
with your body.
So much hurting to get to this moment,
when I'm beneath you,
wanting it to go on and to end.
At midnight, you say see you tonight
and I answer there won't be any tonight,
but you just smile, swing your sweater
over your head and tie the sleeves around your neck.
I hear you whistling long after you disappear
down the subway steps,
as I walk back home, my whole body tingling.
I undress
and put the bronze sword on my desk
beside the crumpled sheet of rice paper.
I smooth it open
and read its single sentence:
I meant to do it.
No. It should be common and feminine
like I can't go on sharing him,
or something to imply that.
Or the truth:
that I saw in myself
the five signs of the decay of the angel
15
and you were holding on, watching and free,
that I decided to go out
with the pungent odor
of this cold and consuming passion in my nose: death.
Now, I've said it. That vulgar word
that drags us down to the worms, sightless, predestined.
Goddamn you, boy.
Nothing I said mattered to you;
that bullshit about Etsuko or about killing myself.
I tear the note, then burn it.
The alarm clock goes off. 5:45 A.M.
I take the sword and walk into the garden.
I look up. The sun, the moon,
two round teeth rock together
and the light of one chews up the other.
I stab myself in the belly,
wait, then stab myself again. Again.
It's snowing. I'll turn to ice,
but I'll burn anyone who touches me.
I start pulling my guts out,
those red silk cords,
spiraling skyward,
and I'm climbing them
past the moon and the sun,
past darkness
into white.
I mean to live.
~ Ai Ogawa,
47:Killing Floor
1. RUSSIA, 1927
On the day the sienna-skinned man
held my shoulders between his spade-shaped hands,
easing me down into the azure water of Jordan,
I woke ninety-three million miles from myself,
Lev Davidovich Bronstein,
shoulder-deep in the Volga,
while the cheap dye of my black silk shirt darkened the water.
My head wet, water caught in my lashes.
Am I blind?
I rub my eyes, then wade back to shore,
undress and lie down,
until Stalin comes from his place beneath the birch tree.
He folds my clothes
and I button myself in my marmot coat,
and together we start the long walk back to Moscow.
He doesn't ask, what did you see in the river?,
but I hear the hosts of a man drowning in water and holiness,
the castrati voices I can't recognize,
skating on knives, from trees, from air
on the thin ice of my last night in Russia.
Leon Trotsky. Bread.
I want to scream, but silence holds my tongue
with small spade-shaped hands
and only this comes, so quietly
Stalin has to press his ear to my mouth:
I have only myself. Put me on the train.
I won't look back.
2. MEXICO, 1940
At noon today, I woke from a nightmare:
my friend Jacques ran toward me with an ax,
as I stepped from the train in Alma-Ata.
He was dressed in yellow satin pants and shirt.
A marigold in winter.
When I held out my arms to embrace him,
he raised the ax and struck me at the neck,
my head fell to one side, hanging only by skin.
A river of sighs poured from the cut.
3. MEXICO, August 20, 1940
The machine-gun bullets
hit my wife in the legs,
then zigzagged up her body.
I took the shears, cut open her gown
and lay on top of her for hours.
Blood soaked through my clothes
and when I tried to rise, I couldn't.
I wake then. Another nightmare.
I rise from my desk, walk to the bedroom
and sit down at my wife's mirrored vanity.
I rouge my cheeks and lips,
stare at my bone-white, speckled egg of a face:
lined and empty.
I lean forward and see Jacques's reflection.
I half-turn, smile, then turn back to the mirror.
He moves from the doorway,
lifts the pickax
and strikes the top of my head.
My brain splits.
The pickax keeps going
and when it hits the tile floor,
it flies from his hands,
a black dove on whose back I ride,
two men, one cursing,
the other blessing all things:
Lev Davidovich Bronstein,
I step from Jordan without you.
~ Ai Ogawa,
48:Motherhood, 1951
Dear Saint Patrick, this is Peggy,
Or maybe it's Pegeen to you,
Well, I'm really Stella Mae.
Peggy's my nickname,
But anyway, will you please tell me
What to do about the rattlesnake
That's in my room?
I know it's there,
But I can't find it anywhere I search.
I've ransacked the closet more than once,
Because that's where we found the skin it shed.
I even put the cat in there and shut the door,
But he only went to sleep on my new dress
Which he had clawed from a hanger.
My grandma, Maggie, says you drove the snakes from Ireland
And they came here to Arizona.
She's right, you know
For didn't a rattler kill our cat, Blackie?
There he was beside the porch, stiff as a board
And baby Florence saw it.
She's only three and doesn't need to see death like that, not yet.
If you can, let her believe for now
That we will live forever.
Anyhow, I'm pregnant again.
I know I've sinned
But I am paying for it.
Don't make my girl suffer
Because her mother used poor judgment
And got herself in trouble out of wedlock.
My mother's disappointed in me.
My father doesn't care
And says I don't have to marry
Just to have a name for this one in the oven.
Father says there's nothing wrong with our name
And will serve the babe as well as any other,
But mother is determined to give this one a legal father
Like Baby Florence has, but only on paper.
She doesn't have a father either,
But she's got her granddad, he says
11
And goes to work. He is a barber.
Mother is a cook and she works longer hours,
So I'm here with Baby Florence
And that infernal snake all day.
Outside, the new cat, dogs, chickens and hogs
Roam about the yard,
But they can't help me, can they?
I keep praying, but you don't answer.
I guess you've got no time for me,
So armed with a shovel,
I go in the closet once again
And succeed in smashing a wall.
Bits of plaster fall on my head,
But I don't mind.
I'd rather be dead than never find the thing
That crawls about the room
Without fear of discovery.
This morning, I woke up to find a coiled imprint
At the foot of my bed.
They say I am protected from harm
Because the Virgin Mary put her heel
Upon a snake's head and crushed it
For the sake of all pregnant women.
I am safe, I say to myself and pray for mercy
And recall the dead baby diamondback we found last fall.
It glittered like a tiny jeweled bracelet
And I almost picked it up,
Before I remembered my own warning to my daughter
To never, ever pick up anything suspicious.
I wish I'd done that with the man partly responsible
For the mess I've made.
The diamondback was like the lust I felt for him.
It glittered so beautifully
I had to pick it up and wear it for awhile,
Then like some Lazarus, it came to life,
By striking me with its poisonous fangs,
Leaving me to pay for my crime
Once by lying to myself
And twice for good measure.
Now I must suffer for my pleasure.
I curse, slam the wall again
And feel pain radiating from my navel
12
Down through my bowels
And am not able to get to the telephone
To call my mother.
I hear a splash and all of a sudden,
The snake darts from the hole I made in the wall
And crawls forward to slake its thirst.
I grit my teeth, but stand stock still
As the pain gnaws at my vitals.
I try to show no fear
As the snake takes a long drink of my water
Then slithers away,
But not fast enough to escape,
As screaming with pain and rage
with all the mother instinct I can muster,
and in the Virgin Mary's name,
I raise the shovel and smash the snake,
Crushing its head,
As I double over and fall beside it
On the red, concrete floor.
For awhile, a ripple runs through its body,
Then it is still.
When my pain subsides, I fall asleep
And dream I'm dead
And hundreds of baby snakes are gathered at my wake.
They crawl all over my body
And I try to shake them off,
Until I realize they're part of me.
At Saint Mary's Hospital, the nurses and my doctor
Tell me how courageous I am
And the nuns even come to visit me.
They claim I have performed a miracle
And should be canonized.
Saint Peggy. 'How does that sound?'
I ask Saint Patrick aloud
When left alone to hold my child.
I smile at her and tell her she is blessed.
The nuns have gone off to light some candles
And in the chapel.
They say they're praying for special dispensation
But I don't need that and neither does my girl.
13
Back home, after a few days, I realize
That I made a mistake in thinking I could take away my sins
When Mother tells me my new daughter is cursed
Because I killed a snake the day she was born.
'What a cruel mother you are,' I tell her
And she says, 'Yes, I'm just like all the others.
I should have smothered you when you were born.
I was so torn up inside, I nearly died for you
And you repay me with not one bastard, but two.
I never thought I'd call a whore my daughter.'
When I protest, she says, 'There's the door.'
After that, I decide to ignore her
And in a state between agitation and rest,
I remember something I had forgotten.
As I lay beside the snake.
I saw a tiny bunch of eggs spill out of her
And realized she was an expectant mother too
And simply wanted a drink to soothe herself
One desert afternoon
When mothers must decide to save
Or execute their children.
~ Ai Ogawa,
49:Passing Through
"Earth is the birth of the blues," sang Yellow Bertha,
as she chopped cotton beside Mama Rose.
It was as hot as any other summer day,
when she decided to run away.
Folks say she made a fortune
running a whorehouse in New Orleans,
but others say she's buried somewhere out west,
her grave unmarked,
though you can find it in the dark
by the scent of jasmine and mint,
but I'm getting ahead of myself.
If it wasn't for hell,
we'd all be tapdancing with the devil
Mama Rose used to say,
but as it is, we just stand and watch,
while someone else burns up before salvation.
"People desire damnation, Bertha," she said,
unwrapping the rag from her head
to let the sweat flow down the corn rows,
plaited as tightly as the night coming down
on the high and mighty on judgment day.
They say she knew what was coming,
because she threw some bones that morning.
She bent down to pick up her rag which had fallen
and when she straightened up, her yellow gal
had gone down the road.
"Go then," she called out, "I didn't want you no how."
Then she started talking to herself
about how Old White John caught her milking cows.
"He wrestled me to the ground and did his nastiness."
He said, "your daddy was a slave and his daddy
and I'm claiming back what's mine."
It was July. I remember fireworks going off outside.
When Bertha come, so white
she liked to scared me to death,
I let her suckle my breast
and I said, "All right, little baby,
maybe I'll love you. Maybe."
Mama Rose said she did her best,
18
but it's hard to raise a gal like that
with everybody thinking she's giving them the high hat,
because she's so light and got those green eyes
that look right through you. She frightens people.
Even men, who're usually wanting to saddle up
and ride that kind of mare, can't abide her.
They're afraid if they try her, they'll never be the same.
The only ones willing are white.
They're watching her day and night,
but they know John swore to kill any man
who touched her,
because lo and behold, he owns up to her.
He's proud of her. Nobody can believe it.
He's even at her baptism.
He buys her cheap dresses and candy at the store.
He hands it to her out the door,
because she can't go in.
He won't, he won't stop looking at her
like it's some kind of miracle she was born
looking so much like him and his people.
It's a warning, or something.
"It's evil turning back on itself," said the preacher
the Sunday cut clean through by the truth,
by the living proof, as Old John stood up in church
and testified to the power of God,
who spoke to him that morning,
telling him he was a sinner.
He died that winter. Horrible suffering, they say.
He had a stroke on the way to town.
His car ran off the road and he drowned.
They say Bertha found him.
They say she ran all the way to town for the doctor,
who told her, "I am not a colored doctor,"
so she went and got the sheriff.
He listened for a while, then he locked her in a cell.
He said he knew she was guilty of something.
Well, after a while, Rose went down there
and I swear she nearly had a fit.
"Get my daughter out here," she said.
"How can you lock up your own brother's child?"
The sheriff knew it was true, so finally he said,
"You take her and don't ever cross my path again."
19
When Bertha passed him on the way out,
he tripped her with his foot.
When she got off the floor, she said,
"Every dog has its day."
From that time to this is a straight line,
pointing at a girl,
who doesn't even have shoes anymore,
as she runs down the road,
throwing off her ragged clothes, as she goes,
until she's as naked as the day she was born.
When she comes to washing hanging on the line,
she grabs a fine dress and keeps on running.
She's crying and laughing at the same time.
Along comes a truck that says J. GOODY on the side.
The man driving stops to give her a ride.
He swings the door open on the passenger side,
but Bertha says, "Move over, I'll drive."
When she asks him why he stopped,
he says, "I know white trash, when I see it.
You're just like me, but you're a girl. You're pretty.
You can free yourself. All you have to do
is show a little leg and some titty in the big city."
He gave her fifty cents and a wink
and she started thinking she might as well turn white.
She got a job waiting table in a dance hall.
One night, the boss heard her
singing along with the band.
He said, "Why don't you go up on stage,"
and she said, "I play piano too."
He said, "Howdy do."
From then on, she made everybody pay
one way, or another.
She got hard. She took lovers—
fathers, sons, and husbands.
It didn't matter,
but once in a while, she heard her mother's voice,
saying, "You made the wrong choice,"
and she felt the blues
and she let loose with a shout.
"Lordy," said the boss, "you sound colored."
More and more people came to hear her sing,
20
but they kind of feared her too.
They said, she was too white to sing the blues like that.
It wasn't right.
One night, she got to talking with the boss.
He walked round and round the office, shaking his head,
saying how much he'd lose,
if she stopped singing the blues.
"How often can you find a treasure like mine," he said,
laying his hand on her shoulder,
then he said, "If I weren't so old,"
and his voice dropped off to a whisper,
then he said, "I got the answer now, sweet Roberta.
Go on down to the dressing room and wait."
It didn't take long.
He came in and set a jar on the table.
"What do I do with this?" Asked Bertha.
He said, "you're going to pass for colored."
Suddenly, she was wearing blackface.
Suddenly, she was safe on the other side
of the door she slammed on the past
and it was standing open at last.
She could come and go as she pleased
and no one saw her enter, or leave.
She was free, she was freed,
but she didn't feel it
and she needed it to be real.
She went on, though. She flowed like a river,
carrying the body of a man,
who had himself a nigger, because he could.
She lived. She got old.
She almost froze one cold spell
and she got up from her sickbed
and told her daughter
she got during the change of life
it was time to go.
She sewed a note to her ragged coat.
It said, "This is the granddaughter of Mama Rose."
She put fifty cents in her hand
and went to stand with her at the bus stop.
She would not return, but her child
had earned the right to go home.
21
When I got off the bus,
a hush fell over the people waiting there.
I was as white as my mother,
but my eyes were gray, not green.
I had hair down to my waist and braids so thick
they weighed me down.
Mother said, my father was a white musician
from another town,
who found out her secret
and left her and me to keep it.
Mama Rose knew me, though, blind as she was.
"What color are you, gal?" She asked
and I told her, "I'm as black as last night."
That's how I passed, without asking permission.
~ Ai Ogawa,

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